


Lazing on a Sunday Afternoon

by stitch_witch_82



Series: Fortunate Prognostications [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has an Anxiety Disorder (Good Omens), Aziraphale can see gender identity, Aziraphale is a Foodie, Aziraphale recites even more poetry, Aziraphale wants to get marrrrrieeeeeed, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Car Ride, Car Sex, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley feeds Aziraphale, Crowley is just all over the place, Crowley switches genitals on a whim i dunno, Established Relationship, F/M, Feeding Kink, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Hand Feeding, He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Love, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Nom nom nom, Picnic, Power Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Romance, She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), The Bentley Ships It (Good Omens), Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Top Crowley (Good Omens), ace spectrum Crowley, picnic sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 12:07:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20835209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitch_witch_82/pseuds/stitch_witch_82
Summary: Crowley takes Aziraphale out for a drive in the countryside for a picnic, but Aziraphale is anxious about something.  You can probably figure out what if you read the tags.More fluffy smut.  I don't think I know how to write anything else.Follow up to "May I?" and "Might Be Nice"





	Lazing on a Sunday Afternoon

Lazing on a Sunday Afternoon

It was just past noon, one week and one day since the world didn't end. Crowley was taking Aziraphale out for a drive in the country. The silly demon even seemed to be trying her best _not to drive too fast_, which the angel greatly appreciated. A large wicker picnic basket occupied most of the Bentley's back seat, and the stereo was actually playing Mozart. Not even Queen-Mozart medleys; just real actual Mozart. Crowley's hair had undergone a rather miraculous growth spurt over the past week, resting around her shoulders in styled curls.

Despite the fact that all these things should have been having a positive effect on Aziraphale's comfort level, he was fairly bouncing with nervous energy. He couldn't relax. Found himself fidgeting, gaze redirecting itself constantly. He looked out the window. He looked at the road. He looked at Crowley. Glanced back to make sure the picnic basket was still there, which made no sense at all; of course it was. He wasn't sure why he was doing it.

No, no, that was a lie. He knew why. He was _anxious_. He felt that he really shouldn't be at this point; he and Crowley had certainly drifted across the line into _established relationship_ territory. He shouldn't be worrying so. But he was. They loved each other and wanted each other, sure, and loved spending time together, and sure, _he_ had brought up the topic of commitment and the future, but Crowley had had very little to say on the topic. What _had_ been said had been fairly affirmative, and Aziraphale was, rationally, pretty sure he was worrying for nothing. But that didn't stop his heart from pounding.

After a while of Aziraphale's nervous shifting and fidgeting, Crowley glanced over and asked “What's wrong, angel? You can't possibly want me to drive even _slower_.”

“Oh! No, no, it's quite all right, my sweet,” Aziraphale replied distractedly. “It's nothing, dear. Well, something, but something silly, so don't worry about it.”

Crowley slowed the car, and pulled off onto the side of the road. She turned and put both hands on Aziraphale's shoulders. “Aziraphale,” he said. She so rarely spoke the angel's full name; Aziraphale supposed he must have really given cause for worry. “Something's got you really worked up. This is supposed to be a pleasant and relaxing drive in the countryside, and you're right bloody _twitchy_. Whatever's wrong, you can tell me. No matter how silly you think it is. I promise I'll _try_ not to laugh.”

It was the same soft, patient tone that Nanny Ashtoreth might have used to get young Warlock to open up about what was troubling him, and Aziraphale thought fondly back to the years they'd spent together working for the Dowlings, watching the not-actually-antichrist grow up. He took a calming breath, and looked out the window, wondering vaguely how Warlock had been doing since his birthday.

“You know,” he said evasively, “This seems as good a place as any for our picnic. I'm ravenous. Let's eat.” He opened the car door without waiting for Crowley to respond, and got out, then proceeding to open the back door and fetch the picnic basket. Its size made it a bit of an awkward burden, but Aziraphale managed, lugging it into the open field to the base of a crooked old oak tree. He opened it and pulled out a wool blanket (in his own personal tartan) which he spread out beneath the branches.

When he turned back toward the car, he could see Crowley following. Her elegant shoes had one-inch heels, which appeared to be making it a little difficult to walk on the uneven ground. She made it to the blanket, though, wiggling a little with every step, and looking every bit as delicious as the lunch Aziraphale had filled the basket with. She hadn't changed her body's shape very much, and the heeled shoes and matching sparkly black nail polish, and dark wine-red lipstick were the only really feminine things about her present attire, but was definitely projecting femininity today.

“You changed the subject, angel,” she said, kicking the shoes off and sitting down cross-legged on the blanket with more fluid grace than should have been possible. He felt his cheeks begin to burn.

“I'm... working my way up to the things I need to say,” he admitted, as he knelt and began laying out the picnic. There was wine, of course, an older French red, and two baguettes that had been fresh from a bakery they'd passed on the way out of London. A few different cheeses, and several preserves; Aziraphale wanted each and every slice of bread he ate to have a different flavour. Or combination of flavours. Really, there were a great many possibilities. There were also two bunches of grapes; one red and one green, and a few small glass bottles of different fruit juices. Also a small paper box, which contained a small selection of delicate little pastries for dessert.

Setting out the food was a pleasant distraction, and Crowley wore a gentle and patient expression. Aziraphale's nerves settled a bit.

“You know what I think?” Crowley asked.

“I can't imagine that I do, my treasure.” Aziraphale replied, cutting a thin slice of one of the cheeses.

“I think I'd like to feed you. Would that help you relax?” She removed her sunglasses and reached out, and he let her take the cheese and the knife. “Lie down and make yourself comfortable, angel.”

He paused thoughtfully for a moment, considering. Then he positioned himself so he was lying with his head on her lap. Dappled sunlight danced through oak leaves, stirred by a slight breeze. He was... on his way to calming down.

Crowley tried a tiny nibble of the cheese, chewing delicately. She hardly ever actually ate food, and Aziraphale was downright delighted to see her trying to share in this, one of his favourite activities. She considered the flavour briefly, then held the rest of the slice to his lips. He took it with relish.

She cut a slice of one of the baguettes next, pausing to inhale the smell of fresh bread that it still radiated, then lowering it to Aziraphale's nose so he could do the same. Fresh baked bread was one of his absolute favourite smells. Had Crowley known that? He let out a happy sigh, supposing she must have guessed. She set the slice of bread down briefly, and her hand hovered over the little jars of preserves for a moment, until she selected one, opened it, and spread some on the bread. Aziraphale couldn't quite see, and was rather intent on watching her face anyway, so the next bite she fed him was a surprise.

Marmalade. And a rather good one, too. He'd spent most of the previous day doing the shopping for this picnic lunch, and those little jars of preserves had been rather the majority of the budget. He chewed slowly, gazing up at Crowley, who was gazing down at him. When they dined at restaurants together, he'd typically been too occupied feeding himself just to notice just how lovely she was with that adoring look in her eyes.

The next slice she fed him had a bit of strawberry jam on it, including a good-sized chunk of an actual strawberry. He did prefer jam with slices of fruit mixed in with the puree; the texture was nice. He closed his eyes briefly to focus on the sensations his tastebuds were experiencing. It was lovely. He felt Crowley gently brush a hand through his hair.

She fed him a crumbly slice of hard cheese next. “That the gouda?” he asked, and she nodded, already putting some preserve on another slice of baguette.

It was blackcurrant jam, dark and sweet. And while he chewed it, she plucked a grape and popped it into her mouth. “You know,” she said, before she was entirely finished chewing, “When Warlock was six, he went through a phase where he would not eat any bread that I had not first cut the crust off.”

“I rather like the crust,” Aziraphale told her. “The variation in texture adds something to the experience.” He'd been about to start discussing the merits of different types of bread, thicknesses of crust, and baking techniques, when she put a grape in his mouth and he rather had to stop and chew.

After that, she gave him a slice of baguette with gooey brie cheese on it, and then briefly paused so she could pour herself a glass of wine. It wasn't entirely feasible for him to have any, not without getting up anyway, and he didn't want to do that. But after she'd taken a sip, she put one hand under his head, and lifted it up for a moment, just high enough that he could have a little taste from her glass without spilling.

There was something so very intimate about it all, and it was a bit of a struggle not to let his body react in excitement to their closeness. He'd been trying to help Crowley figure out her newfound asexual-spectrum identity this past week, and for the time being that meant doing his best not to initiate sexual encounters until there was a very clear indication that Crowley was also in the mood.

The sip of wine was followed by a slice of sharp cheese, which Crowley announced as gruyère. It complimented the flavour rather nicely, and he let out a happy little _mmm_ after he swallowed it, then reached up to gently touch Crowley's hair, which danced a bit in the breeze. He was favoured with another pretty smile, and the softest look in those golden eyes.

They spent what could have been hours like that, Aziraphale lying on Crowley's lap, eating directly from her fingers. She varied the flavours of food she fed him, sometimes combining a jam or jelly with a bit of cheese. They didn't always go well together, but it was always interesting. Very few words were spoken. Occasionally she would have a nibble of something he'd reacted to with particular enjoyment, as if curious to see what all the fuss was about. At one point she dipped a finger into the blackcurrant jam and was about to put it in her mouth to taste, when he caught her by the wrist and brought the finger down to his own mouth instead, licking softly, then sucking. Crowley's breath hitched in her throat for a bit.

“Thief,” she accused, pulling her finger away in mock anger.

“All's fair in love and war?” he countered, batting his eyelashes innocently.

“All is most certainly _not_ fair,” she insisted, but her finger returned to gently graze his lower lip, lifting and draining the wineglass with her other hand. His heart began to beat rather faster than it should. “It's not fair how much I want you right now,” she continued. “It _hurts_.”

“Oh my darling...” He kissed her fingertip. “I'd rather hoped you might. Why don't you _have_ me, then? That should make you feel better.”

She wriggled her legs out from under his head, then crawled over so she sat straddling him. “I think it might,” she agreed, leaning down to kiss him, cradling his face between her hands. Her tongue tasted like the wine. He placed his hands on her hips, and lifted his own ever so slightly, a tiny thrust against her, causing her to wiggle delightfully on top of him.

Her hands abandoned his face and went to his bowtie, carefully removing it and setting it to one side. Then she started on the buttons of his waistcoat, but quickly lost patience. With a sudden snap of her black-nailed fingers, they were both completely nude, and she looked down on him with a predatory grin.

Her chest was flat and her hips narrow, and Aziraphale found his hands roaming over the planes of her, feeling the heat of her skin, the goosebumps on her arms. She ground her hips into him. She had made some effort to having a traditionally female arrangement to her nether regions today, it seemed.

“Poetry time?” he asked, burning with love and lust in equal measure.

Crowley was still grinding, and being rather ruthless about it. Her breath was already becoming heavy. “If you can... recite poetry... while I ride you, angel... feel free.”

Aziraphale believed himself up to that challenge. He looked down his nose at her and said primly; “Not only can I do it, I can do it in Latin.”

He had told Crowley on their first night together, right before their first kiss, that he hoped he would never again tell her that she was _going too fast_, but he very nearly felt inclined to do it again just now, as she reached down to grab him with one hand, and lowered herself onto him, eyes closed in bliss. He normally preferred a bit more foreplay before any sort of penetration occurred, but at the same time, her raw need was very enticing.

“Diversis...” he began, grunting as she lowered herself all the way, taking him in completely. “Diversis varium... ludat uterque modis!” She was bucking away, and he held her hips in a steely grip, struggling to breathe and thrust and speak. “At quern deficiet... varianda... -Oh!- varianda figura priorem.”

“Fuck fuck fuck!” Crowley was groaning.

“Legem... submissis... audiat... hanc oculis;” Aziraphale gasped. “Ut, quot itrinque... prius data sint -Oh _my!_\- tot... basia solus... Dulcia victori det... totidemque... modis! _Oh, Crowley!_”

He could feel Crowley's inner walls clamp shut, and she shuddered as she came. He was not far behind, only slightly disappointed in himself for not lasting longer. She couldn't seem to hold herself up anymore, so he took her into his arms and helped her lay atop him.

“I will admit to having forgotten most of the latin I learned...” she whispered, her breathing still a little ragged, “But I understood something about form and variation and... different types of... sweet kisses? For the winner? And also, you are _so hot_ when your pretty pink lips are gasping erotic poems at me.”

Aziraphale kissed Crowley's hairline, still beaded with sweat. “Secundus was rather fond of writing poems about all manner of kisses,” he explained. “And I think you are the winner, my dearest. That was _marvellous_.” He kissed both her cheeks, both temples.

“The winner, you say? And that means I get all the kisses?”

“All of _my_ kisses,” he vowed. “Forever, Crowley.”

“Promise?”

“I do.”

He hadn't quite meant to use _those_ words, but they'd slipped out, and he couldn't take them back now. He needed a distraction.

He cleared his throat. If Crowley couldn't remember the Latin properly, well, Aziraphale would have to give her an english translation.

“_Kisses that stir my soul have no categories.  
I love the wet kissing of your wet lips  
but the friction of your dry little mouthing makes  
smoke in my very bones, a fluid fire.  
To press my lips on fluttering eyes is sweet  
revenge for the torment of those butterfly kisses.  
I love to lie all over you, to kiss it  
all, cheeks and shoulders and neck and snowy  
valleys and leave my signature in the snow,  
blue on the white dazzle of hills and valleys,  
or suck with moaning mouth the tremulous tongue  
that licks my own, our souls diffusing into  
the strangeness of each other's flesh, soul-kissing  
while love lies limp and dying of ecstasy.  
Short or long or tense or loose these kisses  
take me, my love, whether I''m the giver or you  
but don't let yours simply echo mine, let's play  
variations for diverse instruments  
and the first who fails to vary the melody  
agree with shamestruck eyes to give the winner  
a solo performance of all the lyrical kisses  
that have come before. With all the variations._”

Crowley was smiling, golden eyes soft with emotion. She waved at the abandoned food, and it all found itself packed away tidily in the picnic basket, cork back in the wine bottle and everything. Then she snapped her fingers, conjuring up a second blanket, a soft comforter the same colour as the wine, on top of them. She lay her head on his chest and fell asleep.

\--

Apparently Aziraphale had fallen asleep too, because the next thing he knew the sun was in a significantly different part of the sky from where it had been, quite a bit lower. The wool blanket beneath them was somewhat scratchy against his bare skin, which apparently he'd been far too distracted to notice previously. He stretched, and Crowley stirred.

“Were you sleeping?” she asked.

“I suppose I must've been.”

“Did you dream?” Her voice was light, soft breath against his chest. He couldn't see her smile, but he could hear it.

“I don't think so,” he replied. “Did you?”

“I did.”

“What about?”

“The future.” Crowley placed a tender kiss in the middle of his chest.

“And?” Aziraphale asked. “Am I in your future?”

“Always. All of it.”

That was a significant relief. Maybe he could voice the little thought that had been troubling him. He ran a hand down spine, resting over the little dimples in her lower back. “Crowley?”

“Yes angel?”

“I've been thinking...”

“I'm sure you have.”

“Have...” his voice cracked. He started again. “Have you... _everthoughtaboutmarriage?_”

She propped herself up on his chest, and looked at him quizzically. “What was that? Did you just... Did you jut say what I think you said?”

Aziraphale signed and met her eyes. It was out there. He'd said it, and couldn't take it back. “If you think I said 'Have you ever thought about marriage?' then, well, yes.”

Her cheeks turned almost as red as her hair, her lipstick. But she was smiling, at least. Aziraphale's heart was beating faster than it had been in the middle of sex. It was an agonizing eternity (probably just a few seconds) before Crowley spoke again.

“Always, Aziraphale. Ever since humans came up with the concept. I've married you in _thousands_ of dreams. Sometimes even in _churches_.”

“Oh my love,” he gasped. His arms flew around her and he held her tight, squeezing his eyes shut against brimming tears. “Does that mean... perhaps... we could go talk to a jeweller about having some custom rings designed? I don't want rings that anyone else could have. They have to be completely unique. And no churches, I promise.”

“Yes.” Her eyes sparkled with tears. “Yes, my angel, I'll marry you. And I'll wear whatever ring you give me until the metal is worn away to dust.”

Aziraphale sat up, gathering Crowley into his lap. She pulled the dark blanket around both of them. He wiggled and twisted the golden signet ring off his pinky finger, leaving a pale ring of skin where it once had been, and held it out to her, looking into her eyes. “Would you wear this one, for now? Until we get the proper ones made?”

Crowley stared at it like he'd just offered her the universe itself. Her eyes spilled over with a flood of tears and she clasped the offering hand, ring and all, to her chest. “I will.”

He slowly pulled the hand back, and took her right hand, carefully slipping it onto her ring finger. It fit like it was made to be there.

They pressed their foreheads together, and neither was able to hold back tears.

“Is this what you were all anxious about before?” Crowley asked.

“Well... rather. Yes.”

She kissed him, softly. “Do you feel better now?”

Aziraphale smiled against Crowley's lips. “Do _you_ feel better? I seem to recall you saying you wanted me so badly it _hurt_.”

She laughed. “I'm fine, angel. I'm better than fine. I'm better than I've ever been.”

Aziraphale was immensely relieved. “Jolly good. Delighted to hear it. I'm... I'm also rather happier than I can ever recall being. Knowing I can have you, _keep_ you, forever.”

They held each other quietly for a while, foreheads pressing together.

It was Aziraphale who eventually broke the silence. “...Crowley?”

“Mmm?”

“What did you do with our clothes?”

Aside from the ring Crowley now wore, the only items of 'clothing' still present were a tartan bowtie, a pair of dark sunglasses, and Crowley's high-heeled shoes. Aziraphale began to worry they would have nothing but that and blankets to wear home.

Crowley opened her mouth, then shut it, then bit her lip, then opened it again. “D'you know, angel, I wasn't really paying attention to where I sent them. Just... _away_.

“_Crowley!_ I've had that jacket and waistcoat for--”

Crowley rolled her eyes. “Over a hundred and eighty _bloody_ years, I know. I'll get it all back. Just... give me a few...”

She held her hands out, just a few inches above the ground, furrowing her brow in concentration, then snapped her fingers in an upward motion. A pair of socks appeared. Socks in the same tartan as Aziraphale's bowtie and the wool blanket.

“Well that's... a start, I guess?”

“Shut up,” she insisted. “I'm concentrating.”

A solid minute and several finger-snaps later, she had managed to summon her own socks back into existence, but that was it. She slumped, and grabbed handfuls of her hair and squeezed her eyes shut and gritted her teeth, and...

And Aziraphale put a hand on her shoulder. “It's... really alright, Crowley. They're only clothes after all. I can get new ones.”

Crowley still looked despondent.

“Dearest, I'm not upset with you, really. I promise I won't take my ring back or change my mind about marrying you. Stop worrying. Besides, I'll need nice new formal clothes if we're going to have a wedding, won't I? Perhaps tomorrow we can go shopping.” He cupped her chin in his hand.

“Shopping... sounds nice,” she said, allowing a bit of a smile. “It's been ages since I had a nice dress.”

“That's my girl,” he said, giving her a quick kiss.

They gathered everything in the picnic basket and, laughing, walked back to the Bentley wrapped in blankets; Aziraphale in the red one and Crowley in the tartan. As they neared the car, Crowley stopped and burst into laughter.

Aziraphale looked at her with curiosity, but she just kept laughing, pointing a shaky hand at the back seat of the car, where their clothing sat, folded, in two tidy piles. She snickered all the way through getting dressed.

On a whim, Aziraphale left his bowtie undone.

“Y'know, angel,” Crowley said when she managed to stop laughing, “We never got to those pretty little pastries you brought for dessert. I was really looking forward to feeding you a few of those.”

“I rather think I'd like one right now,” he said. “If you don't mind.”

Aziraphale held the basket out. Crowley reached into it and pulled out the little box, opening it and examining its contents. She picked up a miniature cheesecake topped with some blueberries lightly dusted with icing sugar, and just as Aziraphale was about to remark on how lovely the dainty little dessert looked in her hand, she placed it between her lips and leaned back against the side of her car.

“Come'm geddit,” she said, beckoning with a crooked finger. He dropped the basket.

He didn't need to be told twice. Bracing himself on the Bentley with a hand on either side of Crowley, he leaned in and tried to take the wee bit of sweet food from her mouth. She grabbed the untied ends of his bowtie and held on, made him work for every little taste of the pastry, and it ended in a rather messy kiss. He kissed her greedily until there was no more trace of food left, neither in her mouth nor on her lips, but for a few crumbs that had fallen between them. 

“Remember when we had oysters in Rome?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“I like to think of that as our first date. I wish I'd been bold enough to hand-feed you back then.”

He laughed. “I'm not sure my stuffy old self would have taken that well.”

“I know,” she said softly. “I was ready, but you weren't. You needed more space, more time, so I gave you what you needed.”

He cupped her chin in his hand and kissed her softly. “You've always been so good to me, dear. I'm sorry I made you wait so long.”

“I forgive you, angel. I _have_, long since, forgiven you. This past week has been every bit worth the wait. Especially,” she held up her hand and wiggled the finger with the ring on it, “Especially today. But if you're still inclined toward doing things to make up for it, I have a thought...”

“Do tell.”

“Later,” she smirked, kissing him briefly then slipping out from between him and the car so she could walk 'round to the driver's side.

The drive home was pleasant. They had their first tentative conversation about wedding plans. Crowley gushed about clothing possibilites, mostly whether she'd wear a dress or a suit. Aziraphale's thoughts wandered toward all the possibilities of catering. They both had thoughts on who they'd invite. Nobody from heaven or hell. Just a few humans they knew. The possibility of not inviting anyone at all was dismissed early; Crowley wanted to wear something fabulous and show it off, and Aziraphale wanted to share whatever fancy catered food they got with people who'd appreciate it.

Then there were thoughts of vows and venues, and who would officiate, and decoration and music and should they learn how to waltz so they could dance together in front of _people_. They both wanted to, and so the dancing was the only thing they'd both firmly decided on throughout the whole conversation. But they felt no need to make all those decisions in a hurry, so that was fine. It was getting quite dark by the time they crossed the M25 and re-entered London. At some point, Aziraphale sensed a shift in Crowley's gender identity. Back to masculine, it seemed.

Back in Soho, Crowley found a parking spot near the bookshop, but grabbed Aziraphale's arm to stop him getting out of the car. “Stay,” he entreated, so Aziraphale stayed. Crowley climbed out of the driver's seat and crawled onto Aziraphale's lap, wrapping arms around his shoulders. “More than ninety years I've had this car,” he said, “and never once have you kissed me in it. _Or_ fucked me in the back seat. Tonight we fix all that.”

Aziraphale glanced outside, where the occasional passerby still wandered past, despite most businesses in the area being closed for the night. “What if people _see?_” he asked, shocked.

“C'monnnn angel,” Crowley grinned wickedly, nibbling and licking at Aziraphale's neck, “Jussst a quickie. Your sssweet prick, my tight arse, hard and fast with my ankles up around your shoulders. You know you want it.”

Aziraphale's breathing quickened. He couldn't deny that, now that Crowley had brought it up, he did indeed _want that_. “Oh my,” he said, flushing. And then Crowley placed each of Aziraphale's hands on each of their respective groins, where they each had a rather swiftly growing erection. “Oh _my_,” the angel reiterated.

Crowley undid the top few buttons of Aziraphale's shirt, and placed a wet kiss on his collarbone. And then another nibble. Aziraphale threw open the door and practically shoved Crowley out. “Into the back seat,” he said insistently. “_Now._”

So Crowley edged backward into the back seat of the Bentley, and Aziraphale crawled in after, yanking the door shut, then pulling Crowley's tight jeans down out of the way rather roughly, the heeled shoes coming off too. True to his promise, Crowley hooked his legs over Aziraphale's shoulders. Then he snapped his fingers. “Oh lookit that, I'm all lubed up and ready to go.”

“Such temptation,” Aziraphale whispered, undoing his own trousers and pulling them down just far enough to facilitate what they were about to do. “Wily snake. Irresistible.” Crowley hadn't lied about being all lubed up. Aziraphale pushed, and found himself slipping inside with ease. He let out a groan.

“Ssssshh,” Crowley whispered. “You don't want people to notissssce, do you?”

Aziraphale bit his tongue. Steadying himself with one hand and stroking Crowley with the other, he pushed the rest of the way in, and found he had relatively little control of how fast he pounded away. He leaned forward to bury his lips in Crowley's shoulder, smothering his moans and groans.

Neither lasted very long. It ended with as much intensity as it had begun, and Aziraphale promptly miracled away all the slick sticky mess so as not to despoil the Bentley's pristine upholstery.

“Mmmm,” Crowley said. “Thank you.”

“Thank _you_,” Aziraphale insisted, not entirely sure if he was being thanked for the sex or for keeping the car clean. He realized, helping Crowley squeeze back into his jeans and placing the shoes reverently back on his feet, that he couldn't exactly narrow down what he was saying thanks for either; he'd been grateful for everything Crowley had done for him, for so long. “That was every so lovely. Will you stay tonight?” They'd spent their nights together at one place or another ever since the night of the non-apocalypse, so it almost went without asking at this point.

“Not tonight, angel,” Crowley said, to Aziraphale's surprise. “I'm sure you've got work to do 'round the shop that I've been keeping you from. I'll pop by around closing tomorrow and we can go clothes shopping, okay? I'd love to see you try on a few fashions less than a century old.”

“Oh, ah, alright.” Aziraphale gave Crowley a goodnight kiss, tidied his own clothing, then got out of the car. “See you tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow.”

It was true that he had plenty to do, inventorying the shop. A few new books had come into existence when Adam Young had reset reality, and there were a few old books in poor shape that Aziraphale wanted to work on restoring. He kept himself busy all night, but no matter _how_ busy, nothing would distract him from how lonely he felt. It was probably for the best that he and Crowley maintained at least some ability to spend time apart, but it certainly felt as if he were missing a rather large part of himself.

He opened the shop in the morning, and the day plodded by slowly. He was delighted when the bell rang three hours before he usually closed up, and Crowley stood there, his face flushed, saying “I couldn't wait. Let's go shopping, angel.”

-end-

**Author's Note:**

> I NEVER THOUGHT I WOULD FIND MYSELF RESEARCHING TYPES OF CHEESE AND EROTIC LATIN POETRY AT FOUR AM FOR A FANFIC BUT HERE I AM.
> 
> The Latin Poem is part of _Basia X_ (Kiss 10) by Johannes Secundus. It took a bit of google-fu to actually find it _in_ Latin, and all I found was those few lines. The longer version in English is a translation of the same poem, done by F. X. Meadows. Meadows referred to it as _The Tenth Kiss_. It's not a direct, literal translation; there's some artistic license, but it's prettily done. I first found it years ago in a book called _Intimate Kisses – The Poetry of Sexual Pleasure_ compiled and edited by Wendy Maltz. I am a poetry nerd AND a hopeless romantic, and I am projecting that on to Aziraphale because of reasons.
> 
> Fic title is a Queen song, in case you didn't already know that. It's a short, silly, chipper little tune that gives me Ineffable Feels.
> 
> Things inspired by tumblr discussions that are factors in my writing:  
\- Aziraphale can see gender identity like Anathema can see auras. That's how he magically knows what gender Crowley is at any given time. You cannot change my mind about this.  
\- Principalities are angels that guide and guard groups and communities, and Aziraphale lives in Soho, which is London's gay village. Therefore, he is the Principality in charge of the LGBTQ+ community. Being able to read gender identities at a glance fits in with this. He can also tell how out someone is just by looking at them. My mind will not be changed about this either.


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